


Chirality

by levromethamphetamine



Category: The House of Atreus, The Iliad - Homer, The Oresteia - Aeschylus
Genre: F/M, NSFW, TW for sex and sexual content, agamemnon can’t read hive rise up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21963706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levromethamphetamine/pseuds/levromethamphetamine
Summary: One time I hurt my wrist and thought. What if this happened to Agamemnon. How would he react. and also Clytemnestra.I’m making this public because I truly have nothing to lose.
Relationships: Agamemnon/Clytemnestra (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Chirality

Clytemnestra held her infant son to her breast with one hand, used the other to trace the shallow grooves in the baked clay tablet before her as she read. A message from Menestheus of Athens; this took precedence over the general stream of tax receipts, records of the kingdom’s resources, treaties, formal trade arrangements, official writs of land transfer, judicial rulings, and all the other complex productions of bureaucracy needed to keep a kingdom with the size and wealth of Mycenae from collapse. 

The writing was slanted, clumsy; the king must have written it himself- he was a learned man, Agamemnon had told her- instead of dictating to a scribe, the grooves were shallow, he had dashed it off, prioritizing speed over elegance. He had pledged fifty ships to Agamemnon’s nascent fleet, it read, and she felt a small wave of relief crash over her - the men praised him as a warrior, a general, a strategist, even her own husband’s men might fall to the Athenians with chariot and shield if Menestheus was at their head. As an ally, though, he and his men bolstered the chances of the pursuing Danaans significantly, if what Clytemnestra had picked up on as she sat beside Agamemnon in the palace’s great throne room was enough to make such judgments. Clytemnestra had no official role in the process of gathering men and resources and crafting military strategies, to her great relief (she felt fit more for diplomacy than violence with spear or axe), but as the surrogate ruler of Mycenae during her husband’s mounting absences, she could not help but overhear, and linger, and worry.  
  
Menestheus had not been the first man Agamemnon had approached with his proposal and the swelling ranks of his army. Since the theft of Helen, as he had taken to calling it, Agamemnon had been visiting neighboring - and further - Greek cities, particularly those in which Helen’s former suitors had settled and now ruled (as the agreement specified) but he visited others as well, cities who may be useful allies in the endeavor regardless of previous commitment - for example, he had had a summons sent to Ithaca despite Odysseus’s lack of direct competition for her hand. 

Clytemnestra oft stayed behind to rule in her husband’s stead (and she was more than capable, she often heard him praising to his men, words that she treasured) but she always heard of what had happened beyond Mycenae’s walls upon his return and she received letters almost daily detailing the negotiations, to which she replied with reluctant but genuine advice. 

It was not that she did not trust her husband or his brother. Menelaus’s grief was genuine and overwhelming and his love for Helen was as well, she knew, but Clytemnestra also knew her sister. Privately she suspected the abduction was not an abduction in so many words- not that Helen had truly wanted to abandon her husband and family but she did have a tendency to be impulsive and headstrong, and was brazen and flighty on her worst days.

She knew, as well, a little of the private frustration Helen had nursed, not at Menelaus himself although it seemed to manifest primarily in arguments with him, but she did not know enough, and she suspected her ever-growing closeness with Agamemnon, against whom Helen had always chafed, was to blame for the distance. Menelaus did love Helen, he always had. Despite his brother’s misgivings, the man almost worshipped her, but there were aspects of Helen’s person he seemed to shy away from, to pointedly ignore and almost purposefully forget - and to this, Clytemnestra related, having resigned herself early in childhood to the knowledge that she would never truly figure out her sister, enigmatic and half-divine as she was.

The gods only knew what she had been thinking in that moment, if indeed her choice had been one, if her will, her actions, had been only her own. But Clytemnestra knew Helen well enough to suspect she wouldn’t have allowed herself to be whisked across the sea, torn from her family, if there had truly been nothing pushing her from Sparta and her husband at the same time. Whether it was the gods’ will or Helen’s own, a divine plot or a spur of the moment impulse born of simple marital discord, Clytemnestra placed less responsibility in the hands of Paris than any of the men who now stalked around her household and cursed his name under their breath.

She did not dare mention these suspicions in conversations with her husband and his brother, however. Menelaus had never been the strongest of men, physically or emotionally, but since Helen’s loss he had shown up to gatherings (assembled for the purpose) red-eyed, dejected, miserable. He had always looked small next to the massive Agamemnon, but Clytemnestra thought he seemed now markedly thinner than before, as if the loss of his beloved wife literally ate away at him. And Agamemnon, often at loggerheads with Helen and twice as stubborn as she, wouldn’t hear a second of it- though whether this was because he truly believed she had been taken against her will or because he wouldn’t dare entertain the idea when Menelaus was already so deeply distraught or perhaps because, as Clytemnestra thought at her most cynical, he needed to believe she had to validate the massive war effort he was spearheading ostensibly for the sole sake of her return, she could not truly say. In any case, the event had sparked a conflagration of war preparations and fanned the flames of violence, justified or no. The kindling had begun to burn and it seemed, at least to Clytemnestra, as though only she looked warily at the balanced logs rather than fantasizing about the size of future fires.

Through the large open window Clytemnestra couldn’t quite see her husband, though she could hear him booming orders across the yard and knew he was among the men throwing spears at crude targets, drilling with shield and sword, fletching arrows, stringing bows. The specific cacophony of sounds, inside her house, so close to her children, was deeply unsettling. Mycenae was rarely a truly peaceful kingdom, but if what was said about Agamemnon’s father was to be believed, the rule of his son had brought an end to chaos, violence, internal conflict, tyranny, and civil war. Often Agamemnon travelled to cities at the far reaches of his kingdom at the head of an army, when word came of open rebellion or even mild unrest at the borders but her palace, her courtyard, had been, for as long as Clytemnestra had ruled her household, places of peace. Agamemnon would not draw his sword, even if provoked, in the palace proper, save to sacrifice, to prepare feasts, and other ceremonial or diplomatic overtures. His courtyard was where he exchanged gifts and greetings, signed treaties and tariffs, where he had met Egyptian dignitaries, Cretan embassies, bureaucrats with reports from the countryside, common shepherds who demanded the king adjudicate a dispute about a shared boundary. Now Agamemnon’s loud, deep, strong voice marshalled troops for war, poised to sever foreign bonds rather than forge them. War was becoming an inevitability, rolling through Greece like a plague of locusts, and the writhing swarm and the death and destruction it carried had fallen now upon her courtyard, as though the palace was a field of ripe wheat.

Shields clashed with a particularly loud clang and she flinched, and her infant son Orestes cried into her chest, a sharp and painful sound that struck at her core. She tried to soothe him with gentle words, gentler hands, and wished her husband were here - his son was always calmed when he heard his father’s voice. And just as she finished the thought, just as she then realized she hadn’t heard Agamemnon’s bellowing voice ring out over the crowd like a god’s command in some time, the heavy wooden door separating the room of the palace from the courtyard creaked open with swift ease, as though its immense weight were negligible to the hands pressing on it, as though it had been commanded to open and did not dare disobey.  
  
“My dearest wife,” Agamemnon announced warmly as he entered, his normally stoic features ceding to a broad grin at the sight of his wife and infant son. Clytemnestra did not fear him so to speak, but the size and breadth and strength of him still took her breath away, almost shocked and humbled her. But the familiar image of this wall of a man was mitigated not only by the aforementioned rare smile (this level of emotion was more often than not restricted to intimate interactions when the two of them were alone) but also by the fact that one massive,thickly-muscled arm was cradling the other, the right hand and wrist held at an awkward angle. 

Normally she would respond with equal affection, and she did desperately want to wrap her arms around him and whisper her love but two things stopped her. First, Orestes, who she handed off to his nurse and ordered sent to his room to sleep. Second…  
  
“What happened,” she said, folding her arms, and there was concern there but also fear, frustration. 

Agamemnon’s eyes took note of the missive his wife had been pouring over before his ears took note of her question and he crossed the room in but a few large strides, brow furrowing as he squinted at it, lifted it to his face as if to read more clearly, the clay tablet almost comically small in his hands.  
“Is this-” he began as if he had any idea, as if he could make sense of script.

  
“Menestheus” Clytemnestra decided to rescue him, concern winning out over frustration. “He pledged fifty ships to you …. Or rather, your cause”

“Good. Then we-”

“What. Happened.” Clytemnestra enunciated each syllable, drilled him with her eyes.

“Oh, yes. My right hand, the wrist - There was a sharp pain when I threw a spear, now it hurts to bend.” He proffered the arm to her, exhibited the rather limited range of motion from the elbow down.

“And is that why you’re here, or did you simply miss us” Clytemnestra teased him gently after getting her answer, releasing the fear and tension that had built up around the possibility of serious injury. One who knew the man and his notoriously short temper only casually would think Agamemnon was too sensitive, too temperamental for even lighthearted, playful mocking banter, and indeed he often bristled at the well-intentioned jokes of his male companions but around Clytemnestra he was rarely either, and after fifteen years of marriage she knew his boundaries by heart, never daring to push or cross them; and indeed, the small smile flickering on the edges of her lips, the warmth, the softness in her eyes when they met his betrayed the depths of her affection, her indignant worry giving way to gentle relief.

“I cannot say it had nothing to do with wanting to see you, dearest” he replied softly, brushing the thumb of his good hand down her cheek and sparking a warm blush spreading out from where he touched her skin, as always. Even the gentlest touch from him still roused a flame in her and she still, even after so long, ducked her head just slightly as her face flushed.  
“And as for the children - I saw Orestes here with you, but where are the girls?”

“Iphigenia is weaving - she’s getting quite good, you know. I believe she’s trying to finish this particular project before you…. leave”  
Clytemnestra’s voice took on a rather sad, wistful cadence, unfamiliar to discussions of her children with her husband. Agamemnon either did not notice the subtle shift in tone or noticed but chose not to react. It was impossible for Clytemnestra to tell.  
  
“The other two got bored when she tried to teach them, they don’t have the patience yet. I set Electra to spinning and Chrysothemis to carding, though, they do enjoy that.”

“You did? I didn’t see them in the yard.”

“I thought it would be best to move the looms and spindles indoors for now” Clytemnestra replied, cool and almost distant. “I thought it would be safer”.

“Safer?” Agamemnon asked, an edge of anger in his voice. “Do you really think me so irresponsible-”

“I think that you are preparing for war and they are children!” Clytemnestra’s fury and fear and frustration burst out of her all at once. “There are men with weapons in their hands, violence in their hearts, war on their lips, inside our palace, inside my house!”

She reached out as if to grip his hand, remembered the injury, stopped, clenched her fist, held it at her side, knuckles turning white.

Agamemnon’s eyes widened slightly, he took a half-step backwards, the closest he came to a flinch or a true withdrawal.

“They are children, and they need safety” she insisted.

“But I would never-”

“And they are young, and they deserve some preservation of innocence. Protection. To not know of the worst our world can offer just yet”  
Her voice was lower but no less furious. Agamemnon was quick to anger but usually quick to come down from it; Agamemnon angry was the boom of thunder, whereas Clytemnestra was a boiling pot, she tended to seethe, to simmer, keeping her anger locked deep within until it exploded out of her in a violent fury.

Agamemnon yielded to her, and no words were needed to diffuse what risked becoming a full-blown argument. Having already cooled from her earlier offense, he ducked his head slightly, held out his hands, as if he sensed that this was merely an outgrowth of a deeper conflict. A peace offering, a surrender, Clytemnestra noted with a distant satisfaction. The sanctity and security of the household was, after all, her realm, her responsibility - Agamemnon seemed to have remembered swiftly that in her house, she was the ruler.

“I look forward to seeing them at tonight’s feast, then” Agamemnon said diplomatically. “Some of the men remember Iphigenia’s sweet voice”. He held out his good hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Clytemnestra took it.

“Iphigenia remembers singing” Clytemnestra replied. “And Electra does desperately miss you, she asks after you constantly.”

“I just-”

Clytemnestra cut herself off, paused, gripped her husband’s hand more tightly but did not meet his eyes. Her fear for her children was something deep and terrifying within her, like some rushing inevitability nebulous and cold, defying description, explanation. She could not say it, could not even name it in her mind, but Agamemnon must have felt the fear within her in some way, for he clenched her hand, encircled it fully in his own which dwarfed hers, then pulled her to him with a single swift movement for a tight hug, and bent down to press his lips to her head. He did not understand, but he understood, and Clytemnestra felt that fear and the urge to sob into his shoulders dissipating as the familiar comfort and warmth of his arms engulfed her.

“You are right” he murmured into her ear. “It is just that I would never, to even suggest-”

“I know” Clytemnestra replied in an equally soft whisper.  
“I know”.

She took a breath, a fragile one, shaking.  
She took a second breath as he stepped back, a deeper one, and reasserted herself. Across from her again stood her husband, stoic as ever but never the unfeeling mask many assumed. Agamemnon’s expressions were more discernible to Clytemnestra than to most, but his face still was often a riddle. Now was no different and yet she knew that he had, in effect, in the way that he did, apologized. She pushed her deep misgivings and fears for the future to the back of her mind and returned herself to the present, and the massive hand and thick wrist and strong arm currently hanging limp and useless before her.  
  
“Now, your hand-” Clytemnestra’s voice was stable, firm, confident again and Agamemnon swiftly gripped her hand once more in his uninjured one as though eager to renew that gentle contact.

“No, the one you injured”  
The injured wrist was then proffered silently. As if nothing had happened, or as if the two were trying very hard to pretend nothing had happened.

Clytemnestra took his big hand in hers, then ran her hand slowly up his wrist, feeling with her thumb for anything abnormal. “There are medics, you know” she murmured in a soft voice. It wasn’t as though she minded being interrupted by her husband of all people, but she was no experienced healer of the kind the king had access to, she had no authority, no experience in this realm.

“They’re busy,” Agamemnon said dismissively. He didn’t flinch, he never did (or at least she had never seen it), but she felt his arm stiffen slightly, heard him catch his breath when she probed the bones and connective tendons on the underside of his wrist.  
“Busy”, Clytemnestra repeated. She glanced quickly out the window into the courtyard where she could see clearly the two men she knew to be the doctors assigned to Agamemnon and his soldiers laughing, sharing a cup of wine, their shields resting on the ground between them. A small, subtle smile couldn’t help but creep onto her face; she realized suddenly how close to him she was. One step forward and she would practically be able to hear his heartbeat. They were alone, together, more alone and together than they’d been in a long while. 

“It seems as though you strained the tendon or muscle- when I pull your fingers back like this- does that hurt?”  
Agamemnon exhaled sharply, but shook his head.

“How bad is it?” she asked, knowing full well his answer would be meaningless.

“Not bad” he muttered in response and Clytemnestra resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Not bad” applied until the spear had gone through the arm for her husband, and she got a better answer reading his face, indistinguishable until the extremes of fury or despair to anyone but the woman who had spent fifteen years learning the details and idiosyncrasies of that stoic mask. Excepting, of course, Menelaus, the only person she could turn to for guidance about him- though she wasn’t sure she could turn to Menelaus for anything right now.

His eyes were calm but his hand was sensitive, and she sensed the tension in it when she gently levered his wrist through the normal ranges of motion - it hurt, she could tell, but not a severe pain or a disabling injury. This she probably could handle on her own. 

“And this just happened?”  
Agamemnon inclined his head slightly.

“Hm.”  
“I doubt it’s severely damaged or weakened- here”

From her weaving-basket on the table she grabbed a scrap of fabric and the thin slats of wood she used to separate the warped strands.  
“Hold your arm straight.”  
Agamemnon obliged immediately, unquestioningly, and she took it once more, placing wood on either side, wrapping the fabric around and tying it back into itself. She wound it slowly, deliberately around his wrist, and Agamemnon did not ask a single question, did not knot his eyebrows at her in that gesture of frustrated confusion he so often wore, placed himself- or rather, his hand- at her mercy, trusting her wholly. That thought made Clytemnestra’s whole body warm.

Only the sound of his breathing, his massive chest expanding and collapsing like a smith’s bellows, interrupted the deep, intimate silence blooming between them.  
  
“You cannot treat your body as though you were still a man of twenty five” she chided lightly, breaking the silence, but her low murmur maintained the tone of profound, almost sacred intimacy, bordering on the sensual despite the innocence in her touch.

So volatile and aloof had he been rendered by his past that touch as a way to communicate more than fury was foreign to him; as Clytemnestra had learned, there was no such thing as impersonal physical contact with Agamemnon, and indeed it had been months before he had not flinched instinctively at her touch. Now he displayed this graciousness, this offering up of himself, wounded and weakened as he was, belied a trust, a vulnerability, she would not have believed he could exhibit fifteen years ago, when she knew him as little more than a stranger, and it thrilled her.

She finished wrapping the splint, dutifully ignoring the pounding of her heart, and tied it off, but could not bring herself to separate her fingers from his wrist (even this was thickly muscled, somehow), as if that delicate point of connection was inseverable, as if it tethered her to life. 

As if something, some force, drew them to each other.

“Wear this for a few days and keep your wrist as straight as you can - until the pain recedes” she added, and her face flushed slightly, a reaction uncontrollable but deeply familiar, as was her husband’s satisfied smile, small as a single stitch but visible to Clytemnestra’s trained eyes. He had always loved how readily her face turned red in his presence.

“If only I still had a man of 25’s body” Agamemnon grumbled, in that low voice like crumbling stone. “Could certainly use it at Troy against Priam’s host of sons” “And you’d probably prefer it if I did” he added with a much lighter tone, playful and irreverent, an almost desperate attempt to reach her after Clytemnestra steadfastly did not reply. He placed his good hand on his gut to emphasize the self-deprecating joke.

At that her facade cracked, her coolness regarding his previous comment dissipated.  
“Well…” She began, and she could feel her face heat up as her blush deepened, spreading and staining her cheeks like crimson dye dripped on raw wool.  
“Were I a _woman_ of 25 still, perhaps that might be true but now I find that I-  
“I rather like, and perhaps, prefer, your body as it is.”

He laughed at that, a soft chuckle, and when the laughter reached his eyes Clytemnestra couldn’t help but smile despite herself; they had been married for so long but it still took all her strength to overcome her deep-rooted modesty, her shame, to tell her husband how much he pleased her to see, how she loved his figure and form, and had since before their marriage when she would gaze at him, spear in hand and strong back glistening, in her father’s courtyard instead of weaving.

“It’s not as though you’ve gone soft,” she said, stepping closer to him, running her hand softly up his massive arm, nearly as thick as her waist, feeling the thick ropes of muscle just beneath his skin, in awe at the latent strength there.  
“Yes, there may be more softness to you, but that comes with age, and it merely layers over the muscle - it does not eat away at your strength unless you allow it to”

“I do not” Agamemnon intoned with a deep and severe voice, though Clytemnestra could see his eyes were shining, the corners of his mouth upturned. He was teasing her, inviting more, deeply relieved that she had decided to play along and making the absolute most of it.

“You have always been a large man and in my eyes, at least, your size suits you”.  
  
“It does, hmm?” Agamemnon replied in a low, almost sultry voice, gently encircling her waist with one arm and drawing her close to him.

“And aren’t my eyes the only ones that matter” she continued with a sly, soft smile.  
At this Agamemnon bent his head until his forehead touched Clytemnestra’s, creating a small enclosed space, separating them from the rest of the world.

“Go on,” he said, his voice almost a whisper, almost sensing Clytemnestra’s unspoken words, encouraging her. “How does it suit me?”

“It ... makes you look powerful, solid, imposing” she said gently, after a pause. “not that you weren’t before, of course, but your strength almost seems to me, to be more prominent now”

“Oh, it does?” Agamemnon replied, and Clytemnestra reveled in said strength as he flexed the arms wrapped so tightly around her.

“Oh, absolutely- Some might even call you intimidating on account of your size”

“Some might?”

“Some might”.   
  
“And you?”

“I know you too well now, to fear you - but”

“But?” Agamemnon pulled her closer so her chest was up against his own and Clytemnestra’s breath caught in her throat as she practically felt his heart beat against hers, strong and steady as the surf - and surprisingly fast, and she wondered if she was making his heart race the way he so often did hers.

“But I … appreciate it, one might say” she crooned, bewitched by that soft and smug and sensual small smile, so uncommon on her husband’s face but so welcome, so fitting, so alluring. She loved when he played with her like this and she loved to play back; Agamemnon was no romantic and more often than not initiated things wordlessly, but their rapport had developed over years and that growth showed the most in these small , intimate, uncommon interactions.

“You appreciate me? Is that all?”

“I _love_ that my husband is powerful, solid, imposing” she corrected, almost grinning now.  
“You may not be intimidating to me, but-” and then she blushed deeply again; Clytemnestra could tease and hint but when it came to genuinely expressing her desire, she always, always faltered.  
Agamemnon understood what she meant, and he did not make her say it aloud.

He had to bend down then, to kiss her, but he did, lifting his head slightly as Clytemnestra rose gratefully onto the balls of her feet, then her toes, then lost contact with the ground entirely as Agamemnon’s powerful arms wrapped around her, strong enough to break her in two if he wanted but Clytemnestra knew, and reveled in the fact that she knew, that he would never dare, and instead merely lifted her up to match his height.

She threw her arms around his neck and deepened the kiss, felt his tongue run over her bottom teeth and felt the deep desire within her burn, a gentle smoldering fire fed by the way his lips and eyes and hands moved across her body.

She finally, reluctantly pulled away, falling back onto her feet when his arms loosened slightly, though she kept her arms where they were.

With her arms thrown around him, chin resting on his broad chest, looking up into his eyes, Clytemnestra felt that now-familiar pang of fear, of the absolute impermanence of it all, of the fact that this might be the very last time she wrapped herself around her husband and pressed herself as close as she can to his body, and marveled at his size.

Agamemnon had always been a warlord as well as a king but this was the first time she feared, truly feared, that the war might fell him and the possibility loomed like a dark cloud, like the nebulous threat of her husband’s cursed lineage made manifest, bearing down with frightening speed on this fragile life they had built together. In her very bones she felt as though her world stood on frail foundations, as if she could sense that something was coming to an end.  
  
“Why do you have to go,” she pleaded when all other words failed her.

“You know this” Agamemnon replied, not unkindly nor with exasperation. “Helen’s suitors made an oath amongst themselves to stand by the man she chose, and it is an oath they must honor.” The voice was flat, affectless, the voice of opening prayers and royal proclamations. It was the voice of Agamemnon, king of Mycenae, not that of Agamemnon, husband to Clytemnestra.

“You weren’t even among them,” Clytemnestra protested in vain; she knew her husband well enough to fully anticipate his reply but she spoke out nevertheless. “We need you more than those men do”.

And as if on command, exactly as Clytemnestra had predicted, he replied,  
“Menelaus is my brother.” The words had a weight to them. Agamemnon’s reply was simple but deeply meaningful- knowing their House, there were depths to it Clytemnestra dared not search. And indeed, he was genuine, earnest, he spoke without a hint of condescension. He took her cheek in his large hand again, brushed away an errant tear.  
“I could never abandon him in this time, not now, as I could not have when we were children.”  
  
“That is not the whole truth, is it” Clytemnestra dared to whisper, but she did not pull away from his touch, did not fear even whatever verbal retribution he could summon in response. She did not accuse, condemn; she spoke just as simply as her husband, and as he had, spoke a deep truth, bringing to light what he had not yet admitted although she saw it in his bearing, in his speech, in the flashing of his eyes.

Agamemnon inhaled deeply, but in the long and empty seconds between Clytemnestra’s words and those of her husband, silence cloaked the small room.  
“Perhaps” he admitted. “But what of it, if so. I am a king, I desire power. I rule a kingdom, I desire to extend its reach.”

Clytemnestra was silent. Her eyes burned holes in him. Within, she fumed in despair.

“My father left Mycenae a shambles.” he continued, by way of explanation, though he may as well have been orating to the murals for all Clytemnestra was willing to listen. “And my son deserves-

Clytemnestra cut him off, unwound herself from his body, grabbed firmly her hands in his own, stared into his eyes as if trying to speak directly to his soul.  
“The size of the kingdom your son will inherit will mean absolutely nothing if you are not there to stand behind him, to teach him how to rule- Agamemnon, I fear for you, I fear for our children growing up without a father, I fear me, a lonely widow- surely you of all people would know, your Orestes needs a father to grow up, to be a king in his own right!”

Agamemnon stiffened at this and Clytemnestra paused. Perhaps even obliquely referencing his own childhood was not her place, and she tried a different tack, a vulnerable honesty.  
“I am terrified for you. I don’t want to lose you. I cannot lose you.”  
  
She had seen him off to war before, of course, but this, what was mounting and swelling like the crest of a great wave, this seemed so much more than mere war. It was so much more than the minor wars Agamemnon had waged since acquiring his father’s throne, at least. No great armies had massed in her halls when her husband went off to put down a minor rebellion. No smiths and shipbuilders had stockpiled wood and bronze and wool and spent hours consulting with the king about necessities when he fought with the neighboring city-state for control of disputed lands. Yet now, the brewing war for Troy - ostensibly, the war for Helen - threatened to upend their lives, their kingdom, their very partnership.  
  
Clytemnestra clutched her husband’s hand desperately. Agamemnon’s brow furrowed.  
“Do you fear for me on account of my age? If so, there is no reason for it” Here he paused, stroked her hair carefully with his wrapped hand, rested it beneath her chin and tilted her downcast head upwards.  
  
“I am not a young man, true, but I am not so old that I have forgotten how to throw a spear, and I lack not the ability. You praised my strength yourself, if I recall, not ten minutes ago; my arms are still strong, by your own admission, even if I am not in every way the man I was,” and here he separated one hand from his wife’s gentle grasp and wrapped his good arm around her waist in one swift movement and Clytemnestra could feel the raw and restrained power in his thickly muscled forearm.

She thrilled in the stored strength within him, how he used the bare minimum of his force to hold her to his chest, and the sudden movement and closing of the respectful distance she had established between them began to once again fan the flames she had consciously banked. The thought of how much more he could do, how much he held back not just for her safety but as a conscious concession to her comfort, sent shivers down her spine, she heard her breath hitch as if through someone else’s ears, intimately distracted.

“Do not worry, do not fear for me- on the gods I swear to return unharmed, triumphant. The spoils will be riches for my son’s kingdom, dowries for my daughters, and the line of suitors to court them will stretch to the sea. I will bring back my brother’s wife for him, for you, I will bring all the riches of Troy, gold for your neck and pearls for your hair and silk sheets for our bed.”

And Clytemnestra realized as he finished the speech more triumphant than repentant she could not stop him, and she realized that she could not explain in a way he would understand the nameless hopelessness she felt. Some of that deep fear did melt away when he wrapped his other arm around her (careful not to bend the wrist) and she let the raw power of him support her entirely.

When she fell back on that indomitable strength she wondered if she had been panicking for nothing; surely even on the fields of Troy Agamemnon would be nigh-unconquerable. What could topple this giant of a man, what could possibly overpower him, what enemy could stand against his spear and the arm behind it, why was she so afraid to lose him? At that moment he seemed solid as Mycenae’s ancient walls, immovable and eternal as a mountain. 

Flushed and heady with a sudden rush of passion Clytemnestra did not respond immediately with words but pressed her lips against his again, felt him yield to her in his way. She gripped him tightly, caressed his thickly muscled back, felt his large hands settle on her hips as he deepened the kiss, felt herself burning for him, aching to feel those same hands on her bare skin.

But after what seemed like a small eternity she restrained herself for an instant and pulled back, though she could tell, as his body was pressed tightly against hers, that he wanted more as well.  
“When you return a victor” she said, gasping for breath, chest heaving, “We are never leaving; we will die here, the both of us, and our children will bury us together, in the same tomb”

“And if I am fated to die before you, even in peace?”

“Then I will follow you to the underworld soon after” she insisted. “I give you my word”.

She saw his eyes soften and leaned in to kiss him again, more gently and less desperate this time but with the same passion burning inside her, and she found him ready and willing, and he drew her even closer to him, pressed so tightly to his chest and body she could feel him growing hard against her.

Her breathing quickened, she kissed him more intensely, biting at his lip, reveling in the roughness of that beard she loved so well against her face as he kissed her just as deeply. When he pulled away, just long enough to catch his breath, Clytemnestra saw his eyes aflame, his lips parted, his broad chest rising and falling swiftly, and she would have thrown herself on him in that moment if he hadn’t thrown his arms around her waist and pressed his lips to hers with renewed fervor.

With his big arms all around her and his hot breath in her mouth and his soft contented sighs, unintentional, just loud enough for her to hear, the kindling of Clytemnestra’s desire caught flame - she needed him to touch her, needed him inside of her, the culmination of the physical connection she would long for in his absence, the most visceral manifestation of his comforting strength, his familiar power. And yet, as with his hands, she experienced that power most vividly through its careful limitation; Agamemnon took great care to be exceedingly gentle, and even if Clytemnestra was not fragile enough to warrant such treatment, she reveled in it - her fondness for him was always heightened by this clear display of love, a devotion that manifested in a deep and genuine care for her, a conscious scaling down of himself for her sake.

Their passion was genuine, fervent and yet the two, as two so familiar with each others bodies often are, were practiced, almost ritualistic in their initiation. They almost always undressed each other, a delicate endeavor that began in earnest after they pulled apart again, but now  
They were not, as was usually the case, in the opulent royal bedroom but in the small, simply-furnished room off the courtyard from which Clytemnestra had chosen to watch her husband.

It would be safer to remain as clothed as possible, the scene would be less scandalous if stumbled upon, but Clytemnestra burned to see Agamemnon in his full glory and that desire took the upper hand. She unclasped the gold pin holding his tunic in place and unwound the fabric she had woven for him, slow and purposeful as though she were replacing the clothing of the great statues of gods on a festival day, the weight familiar in her hands, the gentle winding motion of it ingrained now within her like a well-worn path from paddock to pasture.  
  
The two stood too close for Clytemnestra to take him all in at once as she often did so she let her eyes travel slowly over the great plain of his body as she clung to his forearms, his broad shoulders, his back and chest muscled like an ox, the latter covered in thick, curly hair, the bulk of his waist and stomach, his arms like pillars, his well-shaped calves, his thighs thick and strong, as thick as her waist and covered, like his wide, strong chest, in dark curly hair that centered on his cock, ready and eager; he wanted her just as badly as she wanted him, it seemed.

She felt her breath catch in her throat, as if she had not seen him naked every night for thousands of nights, but then she always felt awed, almost humbled, seeing him before her like this. His size did suit him, she noted absently - the belly added to his heft in a way that only made him seem more indomitable, rather than mitigating it, his size enhanced the fearsome figure he cut. She could stare at him for hours, and had, but his big hands were already fiddling with the clasps of her dress, which always seemed almost childishly small in comparison.  
  
He did not tear her clothes, desperate as he was, he never had, and she relished how he moved as though he treasured her and all the workings of her hands, but what she especially loved was this almost deliberate slowness. He slid her sleeves first down her arms, exposing her breasts which he lingered on for a heartbeat; the feel of his rough and calloused hands on Clytemnestra’s smooth and bare skin elicited a soft, sudden gasp from her.

And then he took his lips from hers and lowered them to her neck and she sighed, leaning back slightly into his touch as he kissed her hard enough to bruise the delicate skin there, then lovingly steadied her upper back and shoulders with one large, spread hand. She hitched up her skirt with the hand that wasn’t draped around his neck as she felt his fingers trailing with as much delicacy as he could manage in spite of his massive frame down her breasts, her stomach, her hips and legs and she gasped again, unintentionally, when his hand, not built for the subtleties, the gentleness required of this work but all the more arousing for it, reached her inner thigh, fingers gripping the skin while his thumb rubbed soft circles tantalizingly close to where she needed and craved his touch.

Deep inside her, the fire was becoming unbearable and just before she protested he brought his hand to the apex of her thighs and even as he barely brushed the skin, it was enough to turn her nascent whine into a gasp of pleasure and she arched her back, clutching tightly at her husband as he continued, pushing one finger inside her, then another, silencing her moans with deep kisses, supporting her as her hips rocked against him and her legs trembled.

“Please” she whispered, her breath fast and shallow, and he raised his big, dark head from where he was planting soft kisses on her chest, in stark contrast to the roughness of his hands between her legs, a good kind of roughness but rough nonetheless, and nodded slightly, needing to hear nothing else. 

The lack of a bed proved no obstacle - when Agamemnon hefted her in his arms, massive and thick and unyielding, hitching her skirt all the way up to her hips in the process, holding her up to him with little effort. Clytemnestra wrapped her now-bare legs around his thick waist as he braced her back against the wall, flexed his arms, and then he was inside her and she clenched her legs, tightened her arms around his broad shoulders, his bull’s neck. His thighs, thick and strong, shook with the effort as he thrust into her, she heard it in his labored breath and in the part of her not wholly overwhelmed with pleasure she wondered if his low grunting or her high-pitched cries, released against her will, would alert a member of the palace staff first. There was a certain thrill in that, as if they were wayward young lovers meeting in some clandestine tryst, but despite their age and the legitimacy of their love, as it was, they, too, were certainly too enamoured with each other to think on the consequences of discovery.  
  
Agamemnon’s grip on her thighs tightened, his hips pumped faster, and she gasped, moaned, nearly screamed as he brought her to climax, finishing himself at the same time. For an instant their bodies were locked, moving as one, wracked with waves of pleasure, and then he was lowering Clytemnestra down from her perch, breathing heavily, and she was leaning hard onto his shoulder, her legs shaking too hard to bear her weight at first.

Agamemnon supported her with one outstretched arm, pulled her close to his chest, big and broad and strong and heaving, beaded with sweat, and it was almost enough to make her want him again, like they were both twenty-five, young and desperate and limber. Her back was sore and her thighs had bruises where his hands had been and her loins ached but in a deeply pleasing way, and in any case, the haze over them both dulled for now those pains that came with age.

“Promise,” she said as soon as she caught her breath, intoxicated by the heady scent of him surrounding her as he ran his fingers through her hair, which had come undone from its elaborate wrapping atop her head in the turmoil. “Promise you will come home”

“You will see my homecoming” Agamemnon vowed, and he took her chin in his thumb and two fingers and tilted her head gently upward so their eyes met, something that always caught Clytemnestra off-guard, set her heart aflame, and with a jolt that new fear struck her, like lightning, that this might be the last time he touched her face with all the tenderness he could muster, the last time looked into her eyes with that deep and intimate fondness the way he always did after they made love.

“For our children”  
And with that declaration, he once again closed the distance between them and kissed her, wrapping her in his arms and Clytemnestra stood on the tips of her toes and wished that this moment could stretch into eternity. 

  
  



End file.
